


Alone

by Prius



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Demon Genji, M/M, Magic, Monk Zenyatta, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prius/pseuds/Prius
Summary: Zenyatta, a dutiful monk, is left alone at the monastery when his brothers leave. A particular demon arrives and takes keen interest in him.( triggering things begin in chapter 3 )





	1. Gone

The monks’ way of life was a simple one. They had a lovely temple high in the mountains, with a beautiful view of the valley and the small paddies within it. There was a cold waterfall that gushed down the mountainside, near a pond of lillies where the monks fed the koi their grandfathers had raised, and carefully maintained gardens of sculpted ground and artfully manipulated trees growing in pleasing shapes. 

In the mornings, the air was clear and the sun rose between the gaps in the mountains, dying the sky a soulful red. Birds twittered as they stirred awake, fluttering between juniper bushes and scrub trees, searching hopefully for berries and worms. The monks would throw out seed on holy days, giving the animals a reason to celebrate alongside them. 

There was a small stray cat population, and a handful of drowsy, jowly dogs that appeared almost like lions. They could be spotted ambling around, snuffling at the cold ground, anticipating being fed come morning. 

There were twelve monks at the temple. Their religion dictated small things— regular prayer, study of their texts, interpretation of a deity’s will, and kindness to travelers and animals alike. They would not refuse a meal, nor a soft bed, to anyone, no matter how heinous or gruesome. They were not permitted to raise a hand to anyone, unless it was in defense of someone’s life; whether their own, one of their fellows, or to intervene for the safety of a stranger. 

They were quiet, soft-spoken, and peace-loving people. 

They were also said to be magical. Farmers down in the paddies, when they told stories to travelers or to children, claimed that the monks could resurrect dead oxen with a murmur, sprout rice just by touching the ground, and call storms with a stomp of their foot. There were stories that the monks had split the earth to make the nearby river, or cracked the mountains in two to have a more beautiful view from their monastery. 

The monks would not perform miracles like these for an audience; pilgrims who eagerly hastened to their high mountain home for a spectacular view of foreign magic were met with warm food, hot springs, downy beds, and invitations to join in prayer, but no feats of extraordinary power. Many foreigners were suspicious or angry, believing they had been tricked, but like the most stubborn stone in the riverbed, time was all it took to smooth them. The head of the monastery offered unrivaled hospitality, patience, and kindness, and the pilgrims eventually went on their way. 

The newest of the monks, a young man by the name of Zenyatta, had come from a northern village of sheep herders. His story, like many other monks at the monastery, was unremarkable. He was not the secret son of the emperor, nor a reincarnated god given new form, and he had no wealthy upbringing or tremendous stores of magic to wield.

He was, instead, a student of the gods who found pleasure in small acts and small beauties. In the mornings he could often be found meditating with the wildlife, oft with a cat on his lap, a dog’s head on his knee, and several birds perched on his shoulders. By noon, he attended a humble garden, grooming the plants to rid them of harmful bugs and watering the soil. By sunset, he would meditate until the last rays died, and then he would quietly turn in for the night. 

When he was not meditating or caring for the plants, he reflected on the religious teachings of the gods- either alone or with a fellow monk- and went for hikes up and down the mountainside. Zenyatta liked watching, and reflecting on all he had seen. He took small glimpses of beauty, like the color of a starling’s iridescent feathers in bright sunshine, and enjoyed  _ thinking  _ about it; when he spied the sight of a snake poking its head out of its burrow, he would think about the both of them, allowing their loveliness to freely drift about his mind until he spotted a three-legged cat, which further preoccupied him.

The dreamlike wonderings of the monk would be mistaken by the haughtily educated as stupidity, or needless simplicity. It was not. Zenyatta was a thinker of many great thoughts, and though they may have not been new mathematical formulas or a more efficient means of war, they had their own value. 

/ / /

One day, on Zenyatta’s third year of residency at the monastery, their sister location far to the west sent a letter to them.

It was during their breakfast that a sweaty, panting courier all but broke through the doors, thrusting a scroll of paper for them to read. 

The master of the monastery, a wise, white-haired man by the name of Mondatta, read the letter with steady eyes, rolled it up, and said,

“We all must go. The western monastery is in dire need of our aid.” 

Everyone stood, hastily, with billowing robes and clattering silverware. Even Zenyatta rose, his heart swelling at the dangerous promise of the unknown. 

“What happened, Mondatta?” One of the other monks, a woman with closely shorn hair, inclined her head respectfully towards him. “Are they alright?” 

“I speak candidly,” Mondatta raised his chin. “They suffered an assault by unknown forces. The letter says they have managed to beat back the tide of their aggressors, and they would like assistance in rebuilding.” 

The mounting tension was cut, sharply, by relief. All were pleased they would not have to fight. 

“Still, though, if any of you have arms, bring them. I have a keen feeling as though this attack will not be the last.” Mondatta clasped his hands in front of him, measured and calm. Ten monks filed out of their eating-place, though one stayed behind and a second was stopped attempting to leave.

Mondatta had his arm thrust over the door, blocking Zenyatta’s path. 

“Mondatta, I need to prepare my things for the journey,” Zenyatta said. “Please move.” 

“You will not be making the journey,” Mondatta told him, gently. “It is my wish that you stay behind and guard this monastery from any incursion, as well as attend to the needs of the farmers in the valley.” 

“That’s a very kind way of saying you do not  _ trust  _ me on your mission,” Zenyatta rebuffed, tartly.

“You are inexperienced,” Mondatta said. “Three years is not enough. I won’t insult you by pretending this is a post of great skill, honor, or renown; you are staying here because if you come with us, you will die.” 

Zenyatta, despite his outburst, knew his place and knew that he liked being alive more than he liked to defy the monastery’s master. He bowed, steeply. 

“I will do my best in your stead,” he told Mondatta, truthfully. “Please return safely.” 

“If all goes well, we ought to be back before the next cycle of the moon,” Mondatta‘s voice grew firm. “Listen to me, Zenyatta. If you feel incapable at any point, shutter the windows, bar the doors, and return to your village.” 

Zenyatta shifted from foot-to-foot. “Am I to interpret that as failure meaning exile from the monastery?” 

“Not at all. I am more concerned with  _ your  _ safety than the safety of a building. If it comes to it, you should hasten to a town rather than defend this place. Once we’ve dealt with any threat, you will be welcomed back with no ill-will.” 

“I understand, Mondatta.” 

“Good.” 

The monastery head turned and walked out, leaving Zenyatta behind. 

They left with very little fanfare; although Zenyatta was certain they noticed, no one acknowledged the fact that he was not coming along, and there was scarcely as much as a “good-bye”. It was not because they disliked him, but to spare him the embarrassment of being seen as lesser than they. He was grateful for it. 

Nevertheless, watching them set off down the mountainside, unknowing if they would safely return, filled Zenyatta’s heart with cold dread. As soon as the group was out of sight, Zenyatta knelt and prayed to the gods for their safety, pleaded earnestly for their timely return. 

There was no response to his requests, but the gods spoke rarely in these times. Mondatta theorized they were getting sleepier as mankind advanced, preparing for a cosmic hibernation now that their touch was no longer needed to guide the fledgling species. Once mankind destroyed itself- as it was wont to do- the gods would resurface from their slumber and intervene, in the hope that mankind would be kinder in a new incarnation, and the cycle would continue on for the rest of eternity.

After his prayers, Zenyatta tried to recount the duties of everyone at the monastery. He drafted a list: he would need to feed the koi, the cats, and the dogs, prepare a meal for himself, tidy the shrines and collect incense ash, lead the morning prayer by himself, go to the village to collect offerings— he would need to do laundry by himself, all of the gardening ( not just his own, now )... and there were probably a multitude of smaller things he’d only remember once it became relevant. He kept the list in the fold of his robes, ready for corrections and additions when he thought of them. 

The first day without his fellows went alright. He managed to get the major responsibilities squared away, but what concerned him was what would come the next morning. He had never lead prayer by himself. He didn’t know what to say. What if he said the incorrect words, and profaned the gods? 

_ You won’t,  _ he told himself, exasperated.  _ You won’t accidentally curse the gods in a religious prayer, and even if you DID, they know your heart, not your words.  _

That comforted him as he drifted into sleep, a cat on his pillow and a dog on the floor. 

Come morning, he took Mondatta’s place outside, in front of the altar. It was brisk and cold that day, with a fog far down in the valley, making it appear as though Zenyatta were high above the clouds. 

He stared at the open courtyard before him, empty flagstones with a scattering of lichen, moss, and an occasional intrepid weed that’d squeezed up between the cracks. His eyes kept being drawn to the spot where he always stood, a little ways in the back. 

Zenyatta tried to channel Mondatta’s thoughts. 

He knelt, and he imagined all of the other monks kneeling with him. The sky was blue and distant, frosty and hostile, and the sun seemed to burn his back and sheen him in sweat. 

He recited a passage from one of the holy scrolls, praising togetherness and unity. It seemed silly to say now, with the emptiness of the courtyard, but he did not falter. He stood and gave thanks to the gods for watching over the world of men, and then excused people who weren’t even there to go about their duties. 

After the morning prayer, Zenyatta went to feed the animals, but they would not eat. He laid inviting cuts of meat- good cuts- for the dogs in their bowls, but they were stiff and anxious, with low heads and high tails. He tried to reassure them with gentle ruffles of their fur, but they were unwaveringly still and alert. The cats nibbled at their meals, but their ears were flat and their tails were fluffed in alarm. The birds were gone. The koi were restless. 

Zenyatta began to worry that his prayer had offended the gods, and that the animals sensed their impending wrath- why else would they behave so strangely?

One of the dogs, affectionately called Lazy, would not stop following him after feeding. It loyally heeled at Zenyatta’s side no matter where he went, and whined when the monk closed a door between them, scratching pitifully at the wood. Zenyatta’s conscience made him open it. 

“I don’t have anything for you,” Zenyatta told it, guiltily. “I put out your food already. I know I’m not Hartaj, but food is food, no matter who it comes from.” 

He pushed the stubborn dog slightly, but Lazy did not budge an inch. The dog’s ears pricked up, and its hackles rose. A snarl unlike anything Zenyatta had ever heard rumbled forth from the canine, and Zenyatta leapt back, with the impending sense that he was about to be bitten. 

Lazy instead turned with its tail to Zenyatta, snout stiffly pointing out the door, and began a flurry of ear-splitting howl-barks. 

“Shush! What’s gotten into you?” Zenyatta admonished. He was a little hesitant to get close, lest the dog’s aggression turn against him, but he seized a small handful of courage and laid a quieting palm on Lazy’s head. 

Lazy rumbled a growl so low and deep Zenyatta could feel it reverberating around his ribs. 

Then  _ he  _ felt it too. It came as a prickle at first, a weird feeling that knotted his stomach and then finally pierced his mind. It left him with a slight feeling of wrongness, like he was standing on ice that would crack at any moment, or there was a knife waiting to be pushed into his unknowing back, or his food had been poisoned. Zenyatta swallowed. 

Mondatta’s instructions were clear. Bar the doors, shutter the windows, and return to his village if there was anything wrong. 

But this was his first full day. His first! He couldn’t fail, turn tail and run, so soon into his tenure as he sole monk here—

He squeezed between Lazy’s furry flank and the doorframe, then suddenly found himself caught. Lazy’s teeth held the end of his robes tightly, and there was an uncanny look of fear and stubbornness written into the dog’s face. 

“I’m leaving,” he told the dog, assuringly, but it did not let go, because it did not understand him. It had been seized with primal urges that had no words or thoughts, but simply the sharp need to protect the human from the growing feeling of  _ badness  _ coming up the mountain. 

Zenyatta wrenched the edge of his clothes from the dog’s teeth, leaving it with a shredded tatter of gold-and-red cloth. It parted its jaws to anxiously whine, but did not make a grab for him or his clothes again. 

Zenyatta hurried out to the main pathway down the mountain, but before he could even start, there was a voice behind him.

“Hey!” 

Zenyatta turned, instinctually. There was a young man behind the monastery gates, near the koi pond. His skin was paler than most of the monks, with dark hair that stuck up wild and untamed. He was garbed in loose black clothing, with a scarf around his neck and a thick belt. There was a sword sheathed on his back. 

“You’re one of the monks, right?”

He spoke the language fluidly, but with an accent that said he came from the far east. 

Lazy growled, muscles bunching under its coat. Its tail was nearly upright, and its claws dug into the stones.

“Er, I am,” Zenyatta said, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, but the monastery is… closing. My brothers have taken ill, and they thought it unfit for me to stay here alone. I was just tidying up before I left.” 

“Ill?” The stranger asked. “Are you sick, too?” 

“I’m not,” he assured. “The gods must have taken pity on my fellows and decided to leave me well so I could care for them.” 

“Ah, noble of you. As is expected from a monk.” The stranger smiled, but it disturbed Zenyatta; it was the way it didn’t reach his eyes, like a snake smiling to itself before it bore down on an unknowing mouse.

“Did you come here for something?” Zenyatta asked, hoping, weakly, that if he attended to this stranger’s whims he would leave. Lazy was shaking. 

“Oh, I did. Has master Mondatta taken ill, like the others?”

It was his eyes. His venomous, untrustworthy, snakelike eyes. Zenyatta thought they were brown, but when they caught the light they proved to be a deep, mahogany-red, just brown enough to suggest normalcy, but just red enough to hint at something else. 

“Yes,” Zenyatta said, tightly. He reached for Lazy’s withers, balling his fist tight in the dog’s fur for reassurance. Lazy’s spine trembled with the low, soft growl he made. 

“I wish to see him,” the stranger said. “Where is he?”

“Far away,” Zenyatta replied. “When the monks began falling ill, we sent them to better-equipped place for healing and quarantine.” 

“Where?” The stranger pushed himself up from where he sat at the edge of the koi pond, and managed a single step before Lazy let loose a flurry of sonorous howls and warning bellows, baying at the man to keep back. A few of the other dogs crept from nowhere, seeming to melt out of the shadows to come to Zenyatta’s aid. 

The stranger narrowed his eyes, and he leaned back. “I didn’t realize monks had war dogs.” 

“They are strays,” Zenyatta’s breathing picked up. The stranger was no man, this he was sure of. “They have not been trained for fighting. I ask you politely to leave.”

“Where’s Mondatta?” Aggression straightened the stranger’s posture, while Zenyatta sank low. “Answer me, monk.” 

His voice had begun to distort, crackling like a log in a flame. Zenyatta took a defensive stance, his hands carefully poised. 

The stranger grew a few inches in height, and from his body, red horns began to protrude; they tore through the cloth on his shoulders and forearms, then burst forth from his head. His fingers lengthened into claws, and his canine teeth elongated until they curled out of his mouth like a boar’s tusks. His skin darkened to an inky black, while a milk-white mask pattern rippled over most of his face. His brown-red eyes turned to crimson. 

Oni. 

_ Demon _ . 

_ “Where is Mondatta, monk,”  _ the demon said.  _ “Your dogs will not save you from what I will do if you don’t tell me.”  _

A stone flew from the ground and the oni barely managed to dodge; the rock grazed his shoulder, and sailed into the nearby bushes. 

The demon bared its fangs at Zenyatta. _ “Pitiful magic. If you are going to throw stones, little mortal, you had best throw more than one. That would at least be a challenge.”  _

“You will leave this place,” Zenyatta dictated, tremulously. “This monastery is not for beings like you.” 

_ “Oh, I know. Where is he?”  _

“What would you do to him if I told you?” Zenyatta challenged. “Kill him? I would die first.” 

_ “You would die in vain.”  _ The demon hissed. 

One of the dogs broke free from around Zenyatta, bursting forth with a war-howl. The demon unsheathed his sword, and in a moment, the dog lay motionless on the carefully maintained pebble pathway. Blood glinted under the high sun. 

_ “I do not seek to kill him. I want repayment.”  _

“Repayment? What could my master owe you?” 

_ “I helped him when he was in dire need. Long ago, when he was not much older than you.”  _

Zenyatta wet his mouth. “He is on a long journey. He will not be back soon. You will need to wait.” 

_ “Wait,”  _ the demon intoned.  _ “Perhaps during my wait I will make my displeasure known on the villages in the valley, hmm? Or pluck the koi from their pond and make myself a meal?”  _

The koi were  _ sacred.  _ Zenyatta bridled at the very thought.

“What do you  _ want,  _ demon?”

_ “I will wait,”  _ the oni agreed, slyly,  _ “But you will be my servant, monk, so long as I am here. If you fail in your duty to me, or flee from servicing me, I will find you, butcher you, and every other farmer down in the valley. Are we agreed?”  _

There was no choice. “We are agreed.”

The demon smiled an unpleasant smile. 

_ “Then we will wait.” _

 


	2. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta adjusts to the demon’s existence.

The first duty the demon lay at Zenyatta’s feet was to repair his clothing. He shrank back down to the form of a man, removed his garb, and flung it at the monk, bidding him to fix the tears made by his spines and horns. Zenyatta dove to catch it, and it missed his outstretched fingertips by a handful of inches.

He hastily snatched it up, gave a considerate little nod to the demon, and scuttled off. He was bound for the monastery’s storage room, which he knew had at least one needle and spool of thread. Lazy followed him, though the other dogs seemed to scatter to the wind once Zenyatta got far enough away from the demon. 

Zenyatta sat on the floor, cut himself a slip of thread with his teeth, and worked on carefully and quickly fixing the gashes in the fabric. Lazy guarded the door. 

Once done, Zenyatta fingered the mended cuts. The tears were too ragged for a clean, neat stitch, and the result was that the sewn ends puckered. 

It couldn’t be helped. Zenyatta got to his feet, and Lazy shot upward in the characteristic haste of a previously lying-down dog. The two of them journeyed out into the hallway, which was disconcertingly cool and empty. 

“Where do you think he’d be?” Zenyatta asked, musingly. “Still by the kois?”

Lazy growled in warning, and, possessed by some primal instinct, Zenyatta’s head turned; the demon was a few feet behind him, too far away to be dangerous, but too close to have coincidentally been passing by.

There was a moment of tightening tension; Zenyatta and the demon locked eyes, neither breaking the silence. 

Zenyatta silently proffered the garment. 

The demon took it, carefully turning it over in his hands; he ran his fingers over the mended scars in the cloth. 

“It’ll do,” the demon said, slipping it over his head. “Show me to my room, monk.” 

Zenyatta nodded, shuffling down the hallway. Lazy and the demon followed close behind, Lazy on Zenyatta’s right, the demon on his left. 

The monastery was labyrinthian for the uninitiated. There were lots of different rooms, in no particular order or structure, and nigh-identical open-air courtyards that spanned the gap between individual buildings. It was very easy to get lost, or not know where you were going, and it took Zenyatta a week or two when he first arrived to figure out where everything was.

The monk momentarily considered leading the demon in circles out of spite, but decided against it. He was a guest, even if he was an oni. 

Zenyatta stopped by the door of a guest room, indicating it with a slight bow. Lazy heeled at his side.

The demon paused, a moment, hand on the frame; then he pushed the door open. He stepped in- took a brief moment to look around- then took a deep sniff and stepped back out. 

“Is something wrong?” Zenyatta asked. 

“Where’s  _ your  _ room, monk?” 

Zenyatta remained placid. “Not in this hallway. The guest rooms are kept separate from the monks. For safety, you understand.” 

“I want your room.” The demon leaned into Zenyatta’s space, his mahogany eyes glittering. “Take me there.” 

Lazy let out a soft, uneasy growl, its ears sliding back. 

The demon made a minuscule movement that Zenyatta read in a split second as the intention to kick the dog. The world paused, for the blink of an eye or less, and Zenyatta’s sandaled foot gently trod on the demon’s toes. 

They stared at one another again, locking eyes the same way stags locked horns. Zenyatta withdrew his foot.

“It’s this way,” he said, simply. The demon straightened. 

Zenyatta turned and lead the demon through more barren hallways. On the whole journey, Lazy’s massive furry shoulder stayed glued to Zenyatta’s hip, and the monk now wondered if the dog was here because it was  _ seeking  _ protection instead of offering it. 

His stomach squirmed as he recalled the morning spectacle: a thin steel blade and dead dog on the flagstones, its ginger fur darkening to a burgundy red… 

Zenyatta would need to give it the death rites it deserved and cremate it, preferably soon. He made a mental note to add it to the chore list tucked away safely in his robe. 

“None of your fellows are actually ill, are they?” The demon interrupted the monk’s thoughts without prompting, peering at the empty rooms they passed by. 

“No, they aren’t.” 

“Hmph. You lie well for a holy man.”

A twinge of discomfort touched the monk, but he let it travel through him. The words were complimentary, admiring, even, but the barb to them was unmistakable. 

Zenyatta refused to let the demon under his skin. 

The oni allowed a short pause, then said, “If they’re not here, where are they?”

“On a journey to aid someone who needs them.”

Zenyatta’s skin itched at the  _ “oh”  _ the demon murmured. “And why aren’t you along with them?”

“Mondatta left me in charge of maintaining the monastery,” Zenyatta responded, stiffly. 

The monk could feel, rather than see, the demon encroaching on his space. He didn’t turn his head to look, despite the demand gripping his brain.

“Why you?”

Zenyatta considered the truth, then a lie, then the truth again.

“He thought my talents were best left here.”

“And what talents would those be?” The demon’s voice was almost teasing.

Bluntly, Zenyatta replied: “The lack of it.” 

“No natural skill with splitting mountains or resurrecting dead peasant cows, hmm? Why do they even let you stay here?”

“I do other things.” 

“Throwing rocks?” Zenyatta did not like the oily smile he could  _ hear  _ in the demon’s voice. “Mondatta’s standards have slipped.” 

“I’m sorry you think so.” Zenyatta said, plainly. The demon was trying to provoke him. It wouldn’t work. “We’re here. This is my room.” 

Zenyatta opened the door, gesturing for him to enter. Suspicion momentarily took hold of the demon’s features, and he entered with a certain caution about him.

Zenyatta’s room was very bare and simple; the guest bedrooms, most assuredly, had better accommodations. 

For bedding, Zenyatta had a thin cot suspended by wood slats and a frame, a woolen blanket that he’d received as a gift from his mother, and a pillow that bore gashes from the cats trying to pull out the straw. 

He had a few basic necessities: a rack on which to hang his robes, a nook for his sandals, and a small wooden slab large enough for a foot-wide piece of paper to be written on. Ink and feathers had been tidily bundled with string, left on the slab. There was a woven mat on the floor, for when he felt like prayer in solitude, and a small stand for burning incense. In a corner was a broom, a heavy walking stick, and, in neat, collected bundles in a reed basket, a string of letters and half-finished writings of scripture. 

The demon sat down on his bed, testing the springiness of the slats. 

“I am used to mattresses of feathers,” the demon scoffed, “but this will do.  _ Temporarily.”  _

“The guest bedrooms have better cots.” Zenyatta told him. 

“This will be  _ fine,  _ monk,” the demon said, sourly. “Go pray to gods who won’t answer you, or tend to the fish whose brains wouldn’t even weigh down your pinky.” 

“Will you be needing meals, ah—” Zenyatta realized he did not have the creature’s name, and stood there, helplessly, for a moment. 

“Genji,” the demon told him. “I’ll eat if I feel like it, and trust me, I will let you know when that is.”

Zenyatta bowed- to which the demon snorted in disgust- and left. 

The dog was the first matter he wanted to attend to. The poor creature already had pests coming upon it; a cloud of flies rose from the body and a handful of rats decided to depart when Zenyatta got close. 

The blood had begun to dry, and the  _ smell  _ of it caught in his nose and threatened to spill his stomach. Zenyatta swallowed bile, and then took hold of himself. If he didn’t give the dog the ceremony it deserved, no one would. 

He looked at it for a bit, trying to decide what to do. He ended up on decision to burn it where it lay, rather than somewhere more suitable. There wasn’t much Zenyatta could do; the creature was too heavy to move by himself, and it would…  _ leak,  _ for lack of a better word.

He fetched kindling. 

He said the rites. 

While he sat by the edge of the koi pond, scattering food to the surface, the smell of burning flesh and fur clung to him like a chain.

_ This is your fault. If the dog hadn’t been protecting you… _

He prayed to the gods for guidance, for safety, for protection. Selfishly of all, he prayed Mondatta would come back soon. 

He tended to the gardens. There were well over a dozen small, decorative trees that had careful handwritten notes from the other monks, describing their care, and patches of fruits and vegetables that he carefully scanned for weeds and bugs. 

By the time the sun dyed the sky over the mountains red, all that was left of the dog was ash. Zenyatta collected what he could in a jar and thought about where to put it; not his room, because he didn’t trust the demon not to defile it. Not Mondatta’s, because that was too obvious. Not a guest’s room (where he had decided he would be sleeping tonight) because it was too impersonal, and truthfully, he had too guilty of a conscience to keep it near him.

He left it by the door in Hartaj’s room. 

He went to the monastery’s meal-place and ate in an unfamiliar silence. The others always spoke at the meals. There was always talk about art they made, or sights they saw, or divine messages from the gods. Occasionally there was news from the emperor or large cities or family, and even less often, new manuscripts of poetry from a foreign author one of the monks had a soft spot for. 

Their absence ached like an overfull bladder or an underfull belly. Unpleasant and desperate, barely content with  _ it will be over soon.  _ Zenyatta  _ missed  _ them. 

Lazy tried to lick stray granules of rice off the table. Zenyatta supposed he had the dog, for all the comfort that would give him.

He scratched the pup’s ears and received a pleased wag of its great, furry tail. He finished his meal and retired to one of the guest rooms, where he knelt and murmured a final prayer before he settled into sleep.

The next morning was very much like the first. He went out to the square, stood before no one, and recited a long passage from the scrolls. All the while speaking calm and loud, Zenyatta told not a soul about the passing of the dog and the fact that they had a demonic guest, and advised the empty square to meditate or pray outside today, because the weather was nice and the gods smiled upon them.

He dismissed his imaginary congregation, turned to his left, and almost immediately ran into the de— Genji.

“What are you  _ doing?”  _

Shame prickled like sweat on his back. “Holding the morning session. Mondatta does it every morning unless he’s sick; then he usually picks someone else to do it.”

“Who were you talking to?” Genji’s eyes swept over the lifeless stones. 

“The monks.” Zenyatta said, fully aware of how foolish the notion was. 

“They’re  _ not here.”  _ Genji spoke condescendingly slowly, as if talking to an idiot. 

“They are in spirit. About now Mondatta likely finished his own prayer to the others.” 

“Why bother if there’s no one to hear you talk?”

“It’s tradition.” Zenyatta said, simply. 

“It’s moronic.”

Sharply, Zenyatta asked, “Do you want something from me?”

The answer proved to be yes. Genji wanted clothes, so he and Zenyatta went looking to see if any spare robes would fit him. It turned out to be a lengthy, silently tense affair, since neither of them really  _ spoke  _ to one another, except if it was Genji complaining about fit or color. 

After Genji was satisfied, Zenyatta went to tend to the rest of his duties. He fed the koi, the cats, the dogs (Lazy begged for table scraps when Zenyatta ate during mid-afternoon, and the monk was guilty enough to oblige) and, in effort to draw them back, he scattered seed for the songbirds. Instead, the mice came out in full force, and he didn’t see so much as a tail feather. 

After the feedings, he sat in the shade of one of the gnarled trees that’d been at this monastery before it’d even been built, folded his legs, and meditated. 

Zenyatta enjoyed meditation. It allowed his mind a moment of rare quiet; not that he could just _turn off_ his thoughts, but as his body relaxed, so did the restless chatter running in his hindbrain. Anxious thoughts ebbed and flowed like the tide, or clouds drifting through the horizon. His breathing was purposeful and deep, and if he concentrated on it, it would occupy his thoughts with the simple _breathe in,_ _breathe out…_

Lazy, meanwhile, enjoyed a doze in the sunshine with its new favorite human. 

And for the next few days, things proceeded as expected. Zenyatta did the morning prayer, most often with Genji haughtily waiting in the background, performed a menial chore or two that the demon wanted done (like laundry, a meal, pillow-fluffing, or finding the nicest spot in the sunshine), meditated, tended the garden, fed the animals, or looked over scripture. Then, once sunset began, he went to sleep.

It was a few days- perhaps a week- before Zenyatta had noticed that the demon was beginning to  _ warm up,  _ for lack of a better phrase. By the tenth day, the monk had a near omni-present shadow that would silently watch him from a distance. On the few occasions he ate, Genji outright demanded that they sup together, even if it was in silent discomfort the whole time. 

His insults and demeaning statements about religion, originally a deluge, slowed to a trickle. Consequently, the pair of them spoke less often now, but when they did, there was less vitriol, less  _ anger.  _

Zenyatta wasn’t sure what to make of it. The demon’s altered behavior didn’t seem to impact him too much, though it spared him from the furious hissings of a fussy oni.

Regardless of the Genji’s apparent change of heart, Zenyatta continued to pray to the gods, but they did not answer; he searched in vain for signs of comfort or strength in the incense and the scripture, but received nothing but a headache from breathing the fumes too strongly.

Perhaps the gods knew what was to happen next, and were too busy pitying the monk’s fate to help him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but the next is very long and contains lots of triggering content. See you Tuesday.


	3. Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta is assaulted.

It was a nice morning, nearly afternoon. Zenyatta had completed the task Genji had set forth for him, which bade him to prepare a fine breakfast. 

It had been enough to satisfy the demon, who ate and promptly vanished, like a wayward father after being confronted by his bastard child. Zenyatta did not mind this much. Genji was not entirely good company, and the monk was pleased to be free of him for the time being. 

Though, Genji had admittedly gotten better in the days he’d been here. His complaints and criticisms had grown fewer, but conversely, the amount and complexity of work that he wanted had grown higher. Just the day before he had bidden Zenyatta to compose original poetry and read it to him, and the day before  _ that  _ he wanted Zenyatta to fetch a specific type of fish from the river down in the valley.  _ That  _ had taken several hours out of the time the monk had planned to pray, and he was still feeling slightly snubbed from it. 

But  _ today  _ Zenyatta would have a moment for himself. Genji was gone, and Lazy was easily defeated by doors.

It was a holy day today, one that involved cleansing of the spirit alongside the physical body. Water, drawn from the tumbling waterfall, was boiled, then placed into a wooden bath for bathing. After the body had been completely washed, the celebrating monk would rise from the bath and retire to one of their favorite rooms in the whole monastery: the sauna. 

The sauna was a big room with a deep pit in the center and walls rimmed with fairly comfortable wooden benches. In the pit was a multitude of large, hot stones, which, on contact with small amounts of water, would produce steam. 

The steam, while being said to purify the spirit and body, also felt  _ very  _ nice compared to the mountain’s thin, cold air. It massaged your muscles and pulled on your eyelids, unraveled you like a taut ball of yarn and let you lay, untangled and blissfully limp, on a comfortable bench with all of your friends and fellows. 

Zenyatta was alone, but he didn’t mind. It was very easy, after many days of hard work and long hours, to stretch his toes towards the heat of the stones and sprawl, bonelessly content, on the bench. 

His heart slowed to a pleasant drum-beat in his chest, and he funneled every drop of his concentration into simply breathing. His eyelids slid shut as he serenely lounged…

Zenyatta slowly stirred, not sure how much time had elapsed, barely even conscious that he had fallen asleep. Something hard scraped against the door, and Zenyatta quickly sat up, blood surging to his head and thickening his ears. 

Lazy whined pitifully.

Zenyatta slumped back onto his elbows, glancing back at the stone-pit. All the steam had dispersed, and he was fairly certain the rocks would be warm, but not burn, when touched. 

Perhaps it was time to get up and attend to the rest of his daily duties. He was feeling nice and refreshed anyway—

A hand set upon his shoulder. 

Chills jumped up Zenyatta’s spine, and if it were not for the strength in the hand’s grip, he would have leapt to his feet in surprise. 

“Going somewhere, monk?” It was Genji’s voice, smooth and slick. “I think we should stay. Enjoy the steam.” 

Questions, multicolored and swift, burst in the monk’s mind like a procession of fireworks.  _ How, when,  _ and most of all,  _ why;  _ then, almost as quickly,  _ what do I do?  _

The hand tightened on his shoulder, and claws curled in, threatening to puncture his skin. Zenyatta didn’t dare look.

“Thinking about throwing stones, monk?” Genji all but  _ purred  _ in his ear. “Are you sure you won’t hit yourself? Are you sure you can strike me before my teeth can tear out your throat?”

No, he was not sure. 

A small tremor began in the small of his back, and the damp, cold air and fear worked in tandem to spread it through his limbs. He sat there, naked, afraid,  _ unsure.  _ Lazy bayed mournfully, accompanying the steady thumps and scrapes that came from behind the door. 

“What do you want?” Zenyatta asked, finally. 

Genji hissed, and the tiny sensation of pin-pricks on Zenyatta’s shoulder finally registered as pain. “You should play along, monk. Or else you’ll get  _ hurt.”  _

“What do you  _ want?”  _ Zenyatta repeated, more desperately. The claws cut deeper, and the monk inhaled, trying to keep his fists from balling. “I don’t know what you  _ want,  _ Genji.” 

“Let’s begin again.” The claws unhooked from his skin, which hurt worse than them entering. Genji’s breath was hot on the shell of Zenyatta’s ear. “Going somewhere, monk? I think you should stay. Enjoy the steam.” 

Zenyatta realized, now, that this was no murder, no mugging; it was a play, with the main actor held at knifepoint. There was nothing the demon wanted- no desired goods or services- but the story to unfold to his liking. 

“The steam is almost gone.” Zenyatta leaned back, feigning languidness. The monk’s heart had started to thump unsteadily as the revelation of a performance he hadn’t prepared for set in. 

The demon rumbled, pleasedly, and his hand withdrew. “I can make more.” 

Genji took one of the stones from the pit, inhaled, and breathed. A stream of narrow fire blew from his lips, licking at the stone, and after a moment, he set it back. He did this with a few others, and Zenyatta, moving with an actor’s compulsion, gently ladled water over the hot stones. The surface of the rocks hissed in protest, and great clouds of hot steam rose, fogging the room. 

“There,” Genji said, reclining. “I always enjoyed this particular ritual, though suspected Mondatta instated it for less…  _ holy  _ reasons.” 

Zenyatta inched slightly aside, and dared to spare a tiny glance at Genji, who proved to be just as nude as the monk. 

Before, with his other monks, nudity in the sauna had been freeing; a sort of bare bravery and solidarity, a way to bond. This demon brought not a single feeling even  _ resembling  _ solidarity or freedom. In fact, Zenyatta was beginning to feel like he was  _ trapped.  _

Lazy howled, and a miserable thump crashed against the door. Zenyatta half-way rose, perfectly willing to use it as an excuse to escape. 

Genji’s hand shot out, snatching him around the wrist, sharply jerking him back to the bench before he could get anywhere.

“Stay,” Genji said, and although his expression was fogged by steam, Zenyatta abruptly realized his intention. It felt akin to someone pouring ice water down his throat. 

“I won’t do this,” Zenyatta told him, sharply. “I am not—”

“I wasn’t expecting you to want to.” Genji interjected, coolly. “In fact, I’d be disappointed if you were willing.” 

“I’ll fight you.”

“You’ll lose.” The demon’s teeth glittered in a grin. “I’ve seen you, monk. Your magic is weak. Your body is weak. And once I am finished with you, your spirit will be broken. You’ll serve as an example of why you never keep a demon waiting.” 

Zenyatta wrenched his hand free from Genji’s grip and bolted for the door. The demon moved faster. 

They collided together, against the wall by the door. Zenyatta’s ears rang and the world tilted incomprehensibly; pain burst from the back of his skull and he let out a breathless cry. Pressure, pain, set against his body, and his senses tried to scramble together a picture of what was happening. The demon was hurting him, he knew that much—

Genji recoiled, hissing in pain as he was blindly struck. Six pairs of shimmering, translucent golden arms faded out of existence from Zenyatta’s back. 

Genji breathed, a few feet away, and Zenyatta pressed against the wall.

“You hid your magic,” Genji hissed, accusatory. “You threw a  _ stone.”  _

“We do not use our full strength unless we need to.” Zenyatta informed him, breathlessly. “I didn’t need to seriously hurt you to keep you at bay.” 

“That was a  _ mistake.”  _ Genji spat, and he lunged. Zenyatta dodged, his shins smarting when they collided with the wooden bench. The monk stumbled a few steps, the hair on his neck rising as claws scored the air only inches from his back. 

The demon had assumed his larger, more monstrous form, with red horns and eyes, inky skin, and an alabaster face. Fangs longer than Zenyatta’s thumbs protruded from Genji’s maw. 

_ “Come here, little monk,”  _ he taunted.  _ “Where are you to go? Even if you escape from this steam room, I’ll catch you somewhere else. There’s no sanctuary, nowhere to hide.”  _

One of the burning stones flew from the pile, and Genji easily dodged, light-footed as a cat. It clattered against the wall and dropped to the ground. 

_ “Pathetic. You can do better.”  _ Genji hunched, slightly, and inched towards the monk. His face twisted in a leer, red eyes shining.

More stones launched themselves from the pile— Genji dodged most of them, but one banged into his knee and produced a curse and a sickening sizzle. 

He lunged, and Zenyatta was too slow. He was slammed against the wall, and yet again, his world spun with pain and surprise, body attempting to keep up. The monk pleadingly reached for the gods, for the wellspring of magic within him to  _ shield,  _ protect,  _ save.  _

Zenyatta’s world cartwheeled; solid, cold wood pushed the air from his belly. He gasped, trying to draw breath into his stricken lungs. Only barely did he acknowledge that he was now prone, prostrated on one of the benches. 

Limbs of golden light arose from beneath his shoulder blades, gracefully weaving through the air; Genji took a firm hold of the back of the monk’s neck, which  _ hurt  _ at the slightest application of pressure. 

_ “Give in. Even if you fight me off, I’ll do this to one of the village folk. Someone who has no choice and no hope.”  _

Zenyatta’s new arms fell apart, crumbling to nothing before they could hit the ground. He panted, goosebumps crawling up his flesh. Some part of the monk still held onto stubborn hope that this wouldn’t happen— that it  _ couldn’t  _ happen. 

_ “Always sweeter for having fought.”  _ Zenyatta had not been the only one exerted or hurt in the exchange; Genji’s breathing was laborious, and the monk was certain at least one of the blows he’d landed would bruise. 

“You could at least pretend to be human for this,” Zenyatta said, strained. 

“ _ What a novel  _ idea.” It was frightening how a demonic growl could become the smooth tone of a human so quickly. How many demons walked among humans like lions in wool? 

A hand caressed the back of Zenyatta’s hip, and he jolted in surprise. 

“I’ll commend you this,” the demon murmured. “I would have no other than you. Your beauty is wasted as a monk.” 

Zenyatta did not dignify the comment, deciding that he would be as silent as he could through this whole affair. Discomfort flickered through him when a wandering palm squeezed his behind, and his muscles pulled on sheer instinct.

“You’d make a better servant,” the demon sighed, and his hand dipped between Zenyatta’s legs. “I’d love to have you as mine. Perhaps I can discuss it as payment for Mondatta’s debt.”

“He wouldn’t sell one of his brothers,” Zenyatta kept his tone low and neutral. The demon wanted anger, wanted emotion. 

“I know him better than you,” the demon told him. “Lift up your knees.” 

Zenyatta did not want to. He remained still. 

“Lift up your knees,” Genji repeated, carefully. “I’ll kill someone for every five seconds you stay still.” 

Zenyatta shifted onto his knees. The bare wood would be tolerable to kneel on for only a short period, and he was not looking forward to the discomfort to come. 

Both for his knees, and for…

“What’s the monastery’s ruling on procreation, monk? Are you all chaste?” The demon asked.

Zenyatta did not answer, and a hand slid along the softness of his shaft. He made a feeble sound, jaw tightening. 

“I’ll ask again. Are you chaste?” 

His thumb was rubbing, hypnotically gently, against Zenyatta’s glans. The monk huffed air through his nose, all-too conscious of the sweat beading on his back.

“I have had sex before,” Zenyatta answered, slightly strangled.

“I thought so.” Genji was rubbing harder now, and it was good, good but  _ bad,  _ and Zenyatta’s tongue felt like glue in his mouth. “You must’ve been popular.”

“I wasn’t. I am  _ not  _ an object, de—” 

Genji pinched the tip of Zenyatta’s member and the monk jolted, trying not to make a sound; the muffled whine that filtered through his teeth earned him a few slow, loving strokes. 

The demon’s hand had been dry for the first few touches, but it withdrew and had a slimy, warm wetness to it when it came back. That was very nearly Zenyatta’s breaking point, and for less than a second, he contemplated  _ fighting, running, killing.  _ A steadying palm came down on his buttock. 

“Lay back and enjoy it,” the demon recommended, lazily. “I know I will.” 

The touch continued for some time, until a reluctant heat in his groin edged over the discomfort and fear. Zenyatta groaned, toes curling, and felt his member begin to  _ awaken,  _ hardening with a keen interest. He cursed his body for not being able to discern what was proper and what wasn’t— 

Zenyatta moaned, and the demon’s pace heightened, each stroke cruel and wonderful. 

“Is this not fine?” The demon purred, with a silken voice that reminded Zenyatta of kittens being strangled by their neck ribbons. “I wish I’d done this sooner. Perhaps tomorrow you can show me if your tongue is as good for pleasure as it is for prayer.”

Zenyatta aimed a kick at him, but he missed. 

Genji squeezed his testicles in reprimand, and molten pain flooded up the monk’s senses, making him gasp and squirm. This was the second point where he very nearly broke, wanting to throw himself to the ground and plead for the grip to release; the words were on his tongue when the demon let go.

Zenyatta shook, and Genji continued as if nothing had happened. 

It was many more long, uncomfortable, sweaty minutes of the demon’s touch; somewhere in it, Zenyatta had bit the inside of his cheek so deeply that he could taste coppery blood. His tongue wouldn’t stop poking at the wound, and he couldn’t stop tasting it. 

_ “Ah— ahh!”  _

He did not like the wretched mewlings the demon pried out of his resisting throat, but nevertheless, they came. 

“Ah— ah—” 

Some part of him knew, with a fast-approaching conviction, what was coming. Zenyatta spasmed, slightly, panting a small accompany of “no, no, no”s and then a pitiable cry of  _ “stop, mmhhh, stop—” _

It only encouraged the demon. 

Zenyatta’s muscles seized and for a moment, he was certain he scraped the floor of the gods, the ceiling of man. There was a white-hot moment of absolute religious reverence, where the veil was peeled back and he looked into the cosmic eyes of some kind of ancient entity so unfathomable it’d turn him to madness if he stared any longer. 

He cried out a pathetic wail as his back arched and his balls tightened. The euphoria ebbed, quickly, and with it went Zenyatta’s strength. 

One of his knees had slid in the throes of orgasm, and he’d fallen onto his belly, which was pressed against wood too cold for superheated skin. 

Zenyatta wanted to, but he couldn’t summon the effort to get up. His limbs were weak. The back of his head hurt where Genji had smashed it against the wall. The steam, once relaxing, was sticky and uncomfortable. He was  _ tired,  _ desperately wanting a rest. 

Genji carefully manipulated Zenyatta onto his back, then snaked his hands between the monk’s thighs.

“No,” Zenyatta moaned. He summoned enough strength to sit up, and Genji overpowered him, forcefully pushing him back down. The pain that registered when the back of his skull collided with the bench had a solid patch of black streak across his vision.

“You are beaten,” Genji said. “There’s no point in resisting now.” 

An arm of light sprouted from Zenyatta’s hip, and atrophied just as quickly as it’d arrived. 

“You’re weak now, monk,” Genji’s voice should have been spiteful and ferocious, but he sounded gentler, more far-off. “I think I’ll take advantage of that.” 

A tiny, glittering bubble of light burst into existence above Zenyatta’s stomach, just within Genji’s reach. He swatted at it, like a belligerent tomcat whose territory had been encroached on. 

His hand went right through.

“What’s this for?” Genji asked, bemusedly, right before Zenyatta struck him across the face. 

They tangled together, ferociously, slapping and biting and clawing, kicking and punching, throwing cheap shots with no elegance, class, or poise. They were two angry animals scuffling in the dirt, with no room or mind for any sophisticated moves they’d ever learned. 

Zenyatta’s battered skull cracked against the floor, and he went limp. Thoughts were either flash-fire fast, bursting through his synapses at a feverish pace, or nonexistent, gone like candlesmoke in a gale. For a solid couple of seconds, there was a yawning, gaping void where his mind ought to be, and while not knowing why it should, the absence terrified him. 

“Damn you,” Genji wiped away the blood from his split lip with his tongue. “You’re some kind of fool, monk, brawling with me like that. You had to know I’d win.” 

The golden ball twinkled high overhead. Lazy let out a long, pitiful howl.

Zenyatta’s body stiffened at the press of a finger between his legs; he tightened, on instinct, but the finger forced its way in, regardless. 

It hurt, almost. The pain wasn’t a burn, or ache, or even a sting; it was  _ discomfort  _ more than anything, something that could be surmounted, tolerated. 

Zenyatta’s tongue delved into the split in his cheek while a second digit endeavored to push in. He tried to focus on anything else. The tremors running constantly through his right thigh. The way that his left side sort of  _ hurt  _ with every breath. The way the bite mark on his forearm smarted so much it nearly brought tears to his eyes. The ache in the beds of his fingernails. The tacky blood crusted under them. 

“The gods made men for men and women for women, you know,” Genji murmured, conversationally. His fingers twisted, a bizarre enough sensation on their own, and then a bolt of ecstasy shot up Zenyatta’s spine. 

_ “Ughh—”  _ An ugly sound for an unexpected and overwhelming feeling. Zenyatta shuddered.

“That spot was so people you could get some small comfort from people like  _ me.”  _ Genji leaned forward with a tiger’s smile. “Doesn’t it feel good, monk?”

Zenyatta wanted to formulate a strong, witty retort, but his mind was feeling oddly heavy and cottony. He figured it was better to say nothing. 

“Your body speaks more than your words could,” Genji said, dismissively.  

The demon’s unoccupied hand slid down the flat plane of Zenyatta’s stomach, prying a shiver from him, and ended up trying to coax the monk’s member back to hardness. Whether a distraction from Genji’s preparation, or some kind of sadistic pleasure of his, Zenyatta didn’t know. 

Nursing a concussion and overstimulated, Zenyatta could hardly pull his wits together. He made noises of protest, would lift an arm in concern; but the demon all too easily quelled any resistance he put forth. 

When Zenyatta made a soft plea for him to stop, Genji kissed him, much too lovingly; from there, the demon took an open invitation to nuzzle, lick, kiss, and nibble whatever he liked. His particular favorite was the throat, because it plied particularly awful sounds from Zenyatta; the monk was all too aware of the fangs the demon could grow, fangs very capable of ripping his throat open like a paper screen. 

He hated how the demon  _ laughed,  _ like a child who’d just discovered the sadistic delight of hurting small animals. How he tried to wring more misery from Zenyatta, all the while keeping up a constant stimulation. Hated the kisses and nuzzles and low, flirtatious tone when he insinuated Zenyatta enjoyed being brutalized. 

Finally, part of it ended. The fingers probing, stretching, widening, withdrew. 

“I can’t wait to feel how tight you are, monk,” the demon was shuddering at the mere thought of it. Hatred more intense than anything Zenyatta had ever felt before reared like a venomous serpent in his stomach. 

Genji carefully aligned himself. Zenyatta’s morbid need to know had his eyes flickering to see; the relief from it being normal, reasonably human-sized, was bitter. “Has anyone done this to you before?” 

“Yes,” Zenyatta admitted. It may or may not have been a lie. It didn’t matter. 

“I’ll try to be gentle, anyway.” The demon flashed a smile that was all teeth. The hatred returned, rising like bile in Zenyatta’s throat. 

_ This is temporary,  _ a calmer, more reasonable part of him advised.  _ Is this kind of anger what the gods would w— _

Genji pushed in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated.


	4. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Zenyatta sat on the edge of the guest bed, aching and sore. 

Lazy was sleeping on the floor. It had come to Zenyatta’s side as soon as the sauna door came open, and hadn’t left it since. 

It had occurred to Zenyatta- belatedly- that Lazy wasn’t a dog. Or, at least, not entirely one. Dogs did not cling this close to any master, and certainly they did not take your hand in their mouth and pull you towards the guest bedroom you’d slept in, only refusing to let go when you sat down. 

He was convinced Lazy was the vessel of some spirit, though whose, he didn’t know. 

That, or a manifestation of divine will; some god was borrowing the dog’s body, or directing its movements. He was sure of this.

He was also sure that since he had locked Lazy out of the sauna, that he had partial responsibility for what had happened. If he had just let the dog in— if there had been  _ two  _ of them— was it a coincidence the demon had chosen to strike the only moment Zenyatta was separated? Alone?

_ A divine dog should have been able to get through a door,  _ he countered his deity theory, slowly rubbing his stomach. There were small crescents of blood- Genji’s handiwork- puncturing his abdomen. They stung. They itched. 

“I was being tested,” Zenyatta said aloud, slowly. “I failed. This is my punishment.”

_ When have the gods ever been this cruel?  _ He asked himself, despondently.  _ When has this ever been the price for failure? _

Zenyatta did not know how to answer that. 

Lazy stretched, its limbs reaching out without bothering to stand up. It licked its jowls, blinked sleepily, and then continued dozing. 

Zenyatta lowered himself to the bed with a shiver, resting on his right side to avoid aggravating his newly-bruised ribs and skull. He curled up, as if he could shut out the ache or the memory if only he were in a tight enough ball.

At some point, he would need to re-dress. To continue his duties. Just because he’d been hurt didn’t mean that he didn’t have any responsibility. 

Zenyatta half-hoped Lazy would be the one to inspire him out of bed. It would be reassuring if there would be a clear divine light, or supernatural intelligence, shining through the dog’s actions. He wanted Lazy to bring him his clothes, or fetch him an item that had meaning; the monk wanted a tangible sign that he was on the right track, and that he had failed a test, and that he could make up for it and do better later. 

Lazy did not arise.

Zenyatta waited through many long minutes of pain on his cot, gradually collecting strength like rain in a glass jar. When he decided he had the ability, he stood up, collected a robe from where a spare hang on the wall, and dressed. He felt cold and small, even layered thickly.

He had a feeling that  _ cold  _ and  _ small  _ would be the default for a while. 

Lazy stood, shook its coat, and sneezed. Zenyatta gave it a pat on the head, sparing a brief thought to wonder if he was petting a divine lord. 

The monk turned and headed for the door, then paused on the threshold. A small ball of golden light twinkled into existence over Zenyatta’s shoulder, hovering like a tiny, personal sun. 

Zenyatta’s magic was a part of him he did not like to consciously call on. He preferred it as an ambient force, with things occurring to him rather than him causing things to occur. In this instance, the glittering sphere of light was not summoned; it just decided it should appear. 

The monk hurried through the corridors, hoping to avoid a second encounter with Genji. He knew, now, there was no depravity that could turn the demon’s stomach; Zenyatta was prey, not a servant, and you could do  _ anything  _ to prey so long as you could still feed on it afterward.

_ It hurt.  _

_ There was no way to state it properly, no words to formulate the shame, humiliation, the pain, in an exact description. They had spit, water, and blood, and that was all.  _

_ Zenyatta broke, after the second thrust. He shrieked and Lazy howled from behind the door, like there was a devil inside him trying to break out— or, rather, break in.  _

_ “No! No! Stop, that hurts, that hurts—!” Zenyatta writhed on animal instinct, terror overriding the fog, the pain, the rational knowledge that this would be easier if he didn’t move. _

_ “It wouldn’t if you would be still!” Genji snapped, grabbing the monk’s jaw and grinding his head into the wooden floor. His other hand had Zenyatta’s hip in a vise, tight enough to bruise. The two of them were completely flush; Genji was buried to the hilt, and Zenyatta burned, in a slow way that told him that the slightest movement would only make it hurt worse. “I prepared you. Don’t be ungrateful.”  _

_ A whimper filtered through Zenyatta’s teeth as the demon slowly withdrew. He would tear, he was sure of it.  _

_ “You look so frightened. You’re so tense.” Genji’s tone adopted a loving coo. “Maybe I can help you along.”  _

_ Zenyatta groaned in abject misery as Genji took hold of him; his strokes were slow and forceful, reluctantly drawing him into hardness again.  _

_ After a moment, Genji pushed back in, and an immediate wave of pain bit at Zenyatta’s frayed nerves. The monk cried out, head jerking back, and Genji twisted his fingers and pumped his shaft, up and down, quicker than before.  _

_ It was torture. The demon was smiling. _

Lazy licked Zenyatta’s palm, jolting him out of his memory. The monk’s knees were shaking, the back of his neck was beading with sweat, and his palm had dog slobber all over it. 

Zenyatta blinked, rapidly, and shook his wrist, scattering globs of saliva. 

He wanted Mondatta back already; but his brothers had likely only just reached the other monastery by now. He was on his own. He would have to wait.

And, he realized, uneasily, that wait would likely have more violation. Much more. The demon’s carnal appetite may have been at rest for now, but what was to say he wouldn’t call upon Zenyatta again in a few days? A few hours? 

What was to stop him from  _ breaking  _ Zenyatta, as he promised?

The monk already hurt so much. This wasn’t fair. 

He sat by the edge of the koi pond. The kois eagerly swam towards him, the sight of a human causing them to mouth at the surface in anticipation of being fed. Zenyatta scattered food and the dozens of hungry maws hastily set upon it. 

The monk didn’t much feel like staying to watch them eat, but he didn’t want to get up. He stared at his knees. 

It was barely a minute of rest before Lazy picked up a low, rumbling growl. Zenyatta’s stomach knotted. He knew, without even turning his head, that Genji had followed them. 

“What’s this for, monk?” Genji playfully swatted at the small, hovering ball of golden light above Zenyatta’s shoulder. “Decoration? Or just to make it easier to find you?”

Venom burned Zenyatta’s mind and boiled his blood. He could tell the earth to snap Genji in two. He could ask the sky to storm and strike him with a bolt of lightning. He could… 

Vengeance and anger carpeted the monk’s lungs like ash, tightening his breathing and lumping in his throat. Zenyatta wanted desperately to punish Genji, make him hurt, and the monk was almost dizzy with how quickly different thoughts of torture flashed through his mind. 

“Go away,” Zenyatta said, softly. Lazy pressed its ribs against Zenyatta’s knees reassuringly, a low growl drifting from its throat. 

“Are you  _ upset?”  _ Genji asked, wrinkling his nose. “It’s over.” 

“The wounds are still raw.” Zenyatta said. The anger was ebbing.

“I want—” Genji began.

“I have performed admirably for you for days without so much as a word of complaint. I would like to be left alone until tomorrow.”

Which wasn’t long. There was an hour, maybe two, until sunset. It was more than a generous offer.

“That isn’t how this works,” the demon squared his shoulders, hissing between his teeth. “You’re  _ my  _ servant. You’ll do what I ask, when I ask. That was our deal, and a deal with a demon is a sacred thing,  _ monk.”  _

“What do you want from me? To play some game until you get tired of pretense and attack me?” Zenyatta asked, frustrated. “Would you like my body? The blood  _ you  _ tore from me has barely dried! I’m  _ hurt,  _ Genji! I cannot service you again any time soon!” 

Genji quietly wet his lips. “Your hands are fine. Your mouth is fine.” 

“You are a  _ monster,”  _ Zenyatta hissed. 

“I am your  _ master,  _ as of the present moment, and I want you to kneel before me and—”

“I would sooner put my mouth on this dog,” Zenyatta spat. Merely speaking the words ballooned his temper like a bellows, but he suppressed it, trying to not shake with indignance. “At least it has been kind to me.”

The demon appeared stung. Taken aback. Genji’s eyes swept up and down Zenyatta’s form, lips silently drawn together— then he turned and walked away. 

“Until tomorrow,” Genji said.

Zenyatta knelt beside the koi pond once the demon had gone, taking a deep breath. He neatly folded his legs, rested his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes.

Lazy flopped down beside him, chin on his thigh, and Zenyatta silently sought any relief the gods could give him.

_ Genji pummeled away merrily; each thrust stung Zenyatta, but the demon did not seem to mind. He was conquering a body, not pleasing a lover; what was his concern for the monk’s pain?  _

_ Zenyatta’s protests had died off a few minutes ago, after he had attempted a fourth struggle. Genji’s hands had changed shape, his fingers staining black and his nails lengthening into talons. They’d dug into Zenyatta’s resisting stomach, and amidst breathy exhales and panting moans, Genji threatened to disembowel him.  _

_ “It hurts—” Zenyatta had groaned. “Gods—!” _

_ “Blood is normal,” Genji shoved himself back in and Zenyatta nearly choked on his own tongue. “You’re tighter than— a virgin— and virgins bleed. Will you— feel better— if I give your cock more love?”  _

_ He thumbed Zenyatta’s slit, which, to the monk’s shame, had a beady pearl of pre-ejaculate. Zenyatta grunted, eyes squeezing shut. His nails bit into the wooden floor. _

_ “I love the expression on your face right now,” Zenyatta couldn’t see it, but he could feel the nasty smile in Genji’s voice. “You can just admit that some of it feels good, you know.” _

_ He tried to shove his tongue into Zenyatta’s mouth not long after, and Zenyatta thought very, very hard about biting it off.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time. The next one will be longer, and be a little more intense.


	5. Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreams.

Zenyatta had dinner. It was a somber and quiet affair, involving a femur, a bowl of rice, and a cup of tea. The femur was Lazy’s, who gnawed on it, quietly introspective about the events of the day. 

Either that, or the dog was just thinking about how nice having a bone was. But Zenyatta thought he could see an intentioned glimmer in Lazy’s moist black eyes. 

The monk finished his rice, drank his tea, and decided that tonight he would sleep somewhere out of the way; certainly not in the monastery. He did not trust his sleeping body to be left unguarded (he recalled the fact that Lazy had not prevented Genji from entering the sauna…) so the only thing to do would be to sequester himself somewhere far, far out of reach. At least for the night. 

He took bedding material from storage and headed a little ways down the mountain. There was a cave- well, not entirely a cave, but a dent in the mountainside that would offer some protection- down a narrow, entirely missable path. Lazy followed him faithfully, perking up the further they moved from the monastery— or, likely more accurately, Genji. 

Zenyatta laid out his bedding. The wind against the mountainside didn’t so much as whisper as it yelled, angrily, at the earth for having the gall to be in the way. 

Lazy stayed close to Zenyatta. Whether it was for warmth, because of fear, caused by concern about falling off, or due to a protective instinct, was beyond the monk’s knowledge. 

Zenyatta laid on his back. The glittering golden orb had disappeared a long time ago, and it’d taken his wounds with it. His skull and ribs had mended, and the memory of Genji’s claws was only that— a memory. Even the empty, torn soreness of his lower body was gone. 

Zenyatta was good at healing magic, when it was cracked ribs and torn skin. The mind— it was more complicated. More unpleasant. 

The monk turned on his side. 

Lazy tried to nose its way under the blankets, and Zenyatta found himself in a sympathetic mood. Besides, if the dog were a god or spirit, it was good to be hospitable. He allowed Lazy to burrow under and lay beside him. 

The dog’s fur was cold on the exterior, but after moments of shared body heat, Lazy radiated warmth like a tiny star. 

Zenyatta slept curled beside the dog, who dreamed of chasing butterflies and tapestries of intricately woven scent; its legs kicked, minisculely, every so often, caught in the uncomplicated mindscape of a dog’s dreams.

Zenyatta’s were far more complex, and, unfortunately for him, far worse. 

/ / /

Zenyatta was a sheep herder.

It was his responsibility to shepherd his flock when they needed moving, tend to them if they were sick, injured, or pregnant, and make sure they were fed, watered, and safe from predators. Once the need arose, he would shear them or kill them as humanely as possible.

Up until recently, he’d had assistance with his flock, but as of now, he was alone. His dog, Lazy, had passed away only a few days ago, and trying to get the sheep to move where he directed was much harder without the dog’s help. 

The butt of his staff squelched in the mud when he tapped it impatiently against the ground. A particularly ornery ram was challenging another, slightly smaller, ram, battering at him with his horns and screaming at such volume you’d think they had mortally wounded one another. 

Zenyatta would feed on one of them tonight; likely the loser. The meat would be more tender that way. 

The sound of sloshing footsteps made Zenyatta wearily turn. He recognized the man who walked up to him, even with a scarf drawn all the way up to his nose. His dark hair, slickened by the streaming rain, and thin, though still muscular, physique gave it away. 

“Genji,” Zenyatta greeted, leaning a little on his staff. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been away on business,” Genji said. He was muffled by his scarf. “But that doesn’t really matter. You’re soaked to the bone, mo— er, friend. What say you we get somewhere warm and dry?”

“And leave them?” Zenyatta indicated the fifty-something sheep dumbly watching the two rams pummel each other. 

“They can watch themselves, can’t they?”

“The wolves wait for when the shepherds are not watching.” The proverb felt familiar on his tongue, though he couldn’t recall where from. 

“Don’t you have a dog?” Genji asked. “He’ll be a fine guardian for a short while.” 

“A dog?” Oh, that was right. He had Lazy. The dog was carefully watching the two rams from the sidelines. Mud coated its paws and rain clumped its fur into unattractive tufts. “Ah, right. Forgive me, I’m not feeling myself, Genji.” 

“Perhaps you’ve caught a cold in this drizzle. I’ll make you some tea.”

Zenyatta didn’t recall how they got into his hut, but they were here. Genji was already pouring tea. 

Zenyatta wondered if he had a fever; then discarded the idea. He couldn’t afford to get sick. 

He sipped the tea Genji gave him. It was rich, warm, different from the simple root or flower tea that was common here. Genji must’ve gotten it on one of his trips to foreign parts. 

Genji was a merchant, and not an inconsequentially wealthy one, at that. Zenyatta often wondered why he bothered with a lowly shepherd like himself. 

“Do you like it? The blend is from Wa.”

Zenyatta swallowed, politely. “Really? That’s so very far.” 

“Oh, I’ve gone further before,” Genji said. “After a while the months of travel blur together.” 

The merchant drank his own tea. Zenyatta didn’t recall him having any, but he must have, because it was right there.

“Could I bring you back something special on my next trip?” Genji asked. His mahogany eyes glittered like ice. “I’m going there again soon.”

“Oh, you don’t need to trouble yourself for me. I’d only feel obligated to gift you something in return, and I just don’t have the resources to—”

“Oh, it’s fine. It’ll only be something small. Think of it as an apology present, since I haven’t been around as often as I’d like. All I want in return is a reminder of how to spell your name, to write it on the gift.” 

Slender threads pulled tight in Zenyatta’s mind, and for a moment, it seemed as though there were only darkness.

“Are you alright?” Genji was at his side, hands on his shoulders. “You’re pale, and sweating… is something wrong?”

“No, no… I just… I think I may be ill.” Black spots swam in Zenyatta’s vision, but he blinked them away. “I’m sorry, Genji, you were right. I think I should… lie down.”

Zenyatta was in bed in a moment; like time was skipping, or freezing. It was starting to get more noticeable. He could swear that everything looked like a skin resting on top of itself, like a thin veneer disguising the rot below. 

The shepherd was sweating, and his limbs were heavy. It must’ve been feverish delusion. 

Genji’s teeth nibbled across his earlobe, then pulled. His fingers danced across Zenyatta’s skin. The bulge beneath his robe ground against Zenyatta’s, and the shepherd moaned, canting his hips up, chasing the touch. He hurt, suddenly, ached with need, and he didn’t care that it came from his wealthy friend. 

“Ah,” he whimpered, when Genji’s hand delved into his robe, cupped his aching cock. 

Delved into his robe. 

His robe. 

His robe, which was dry. Why was it dry? It shouldn’t have been dry, he was just outside, outside in the rain, outside with the sheep, outside with Lazy, who was dead, but the dog wasn’t dead because it was alive, and it wasn’t a herding dog, it was—

The illusion shattered. 

Genji screeched in pain, and he was flung away, into the darkness. Zenyatta shook, blinking fast, disoriented and lost for the moment. Then it all poured back. 

He was a monk, not a shepherd. And Genji was not his friend.

_ “Fine. So you broke out of my dream,”  _ Genji sneered. His voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Zenyatta dropped into a defensive crouch.  _ “That doesn’t matter. I don’t need to trick you. Here, I can do whatever I please; and that includes you.”  _

Zenyatta had a split-second to react, and he dropped to the ground as a dark shape hurled over his head. 

The floor was cold and smooth, like black glass. This place- wherever it was- was mired in black fog, making it impossible to see further than ten feet ahead of you. It was dark. It was— Zenyatta didn’t even know. 

_ “You left the protection of the monastery. That was my opening.”  _ Genji called into the darkness.  _ “I couldn’t get into your dreams before, but now—” _

Zenyatta bit the inside of his cheek, and dragged himself slowly forward on his elbows. He swore he could see dark shapes flickering all around the mist. 

A hand grabbed his ankle, and Zenyatta’s world flipped as he was dragged back and held upside-down by a very smug-looking demon.

_ “— now, you’re mine.”  _

“You already had me,” Zenyatta gasped, desperately. Blood rushed to his head, pounding on his skull like a drum. “What more could you possibly want?”

_ “The world is limited. Constrained by facts and truths. Here, whatever I want is as it is— the epitome of dreaming lucid. In life, if I do not have the proper equipment, my darling little plaything cries because his skin tore and he bled. Here? That doesn’t matter.”  _

“Put me down,” Zenyatta demanded. His head hurt, and his mouth was dry. 

Genji dropped him. Zenyatta managed to get his hands underneath him before his head, and prevented his skull from cracking like an eggshell. 

A foot solidly planted itself between Zenyatta’s shoulder blades, pinning him down. 

_ “What’s your name, monk?”  _

“What?” Zenyatta asked. Where did the concern about names come from?

_ “I want to know your name. Tell me, or I’ll take you apart and put you back together again. There’s no death, not in dreams— you just wish you could die.”  _

“Zenyatta,” he muttered, quietly. 

_ “Zenyatta,”  _ the demon moaned, and the foot withdrew.  _ “At last.” _

The very same foot kicked Zenyatta brutally hard in the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs and flipping him onto his back. While he wheezed, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, Genji planted himself between his legs. 

Zenyatta tried to sit up; tendrils of darkness reached from the fog and ensnared his wrists, pinning him flat. Zenyatta called for the gods, for his magic; and it failed him. 

_ “I am going to ravish you,”  _ the demon told Zenyatta, tone sweet and satisfied.  _ “And we will both enjoy every second of it.”  _

“Mondatta is going to  _ kill you,”  _ Zenyatta lashed out, weakly. “Or if he won’t—”

A sharp finger traced Zenyatta’s hole, and the bright whiteness of the demon’s face loomed in close. Zenyatta sucked in a breath. 

_ “— You will?”  _ Genji asked, playfully.  _ “I want you to try. Really try. And then when you falter, you’ll know your own weakness. You’ll know that, really, you belong to me.” _

A long tongue prodded its way out of Genji’s tangle of fangs, sliding up Zenyatta’s face from chin to temple and leaving a wet trail in its wake. The monk tried not to shudder in revulsion. 

The finger pushed in, and Zenyatta jolted. It hurt, but in a less immediate way, like there was a slight dampening on the message of  _ it hurts  _ leaving and arriving. Zenyatta struggled, but the tendrils did not budge. 

_ “Mondatta is secondary now, if you must know. My priority is you.” _

“Somehow, I do not feel—  _ ah!—  _ lucky…”

_ “Because your mindset is still wrong. You think because I’m a demon, because I can hurt you, that you’re not allowed to like this.” _

“I  _ don’t  _ like this.” Zenyatta shot back. Genji’s finger twisted, and Zenyatta screwed up his eyes, waiting for the shock of lightning to travel up his spine. When it came, Zenyatta groaned. 

_ “You seemed to like that.” _

“I don’t like  _ you.” _

The demon froze for a moment; then snarled in Zenyatta’s face and wrenched his hands away.  _ “You ungrateful little—” _

The next happening was predictable. Zenyatta’s mind replayed the events of the sauna, the first sensation of Genji’s length pushing in, over and over, until he could all but feel it—

And then he did. 

The demon’s member was not like his human one. It was longer, though perhaps thinner, with a reddened crown (though not as if flushed by blood, but as though it were dyed or painted) that tapered to a thick base. Zenyatta’s spine trembled, metaphorically and literally. He thought about taking back his words, thought about pleading to be let go. But he knew, in his heart, it would do him no good. 

Genji thrust in, deeply. Zenyatta choked on a wail, biceps bunching, but the misty shackles did not give. 

It  _ hurt,  _ but, yet again, not in the same way the sauna had hurt. It didn’t feel real now. There was pain, yes, but some instinctual part of him was relieved, because he knew there would be no damage. 

Some piece of him knew this was a dream. His self-preservation, his fear, wasn’t as strong as it ought to have been. 

Genji pulled back. Zenyatta squirmed, fists balling, but there was nothing he could do when Genji thrust back in. 

The demon sighed, breathily, into Zenyatta’s neck. His tongue laved the pulse of the monk’s throat, and he began a hard, punishing rhythm. 

Zenyatta hurt, yes, but he did not tear, and did not fear it would happen. This was a place of dreams. A place where, if Genji liked, there would be no blood, no pain; which meant, as far as the monk could piece together, he  _ wanted  _ this to hurt Zenyatta, or, at least, thought it should.

A deep thrust forced a cry from Zenyatta’s throat. The pace was getting more forceful now, Genji incensed for some unknown reason. The demon’s sharp-clawed fingers slid over Zenyatta’s half-hard shaft, pumping it to coax it into fullness. 

_ “Mondatta will let me have you. And I will break you in until you are begging to let me choke you, to hurt you, to do  _ **_this_ ** _ to you—”  _ the words were punctuated with an off-rhythm buck back into Zenyatta, “—  _ and we will both enjoy every second of it.”  _

Zenyatta whimpered, shut eyes tightening. His cock was throbbing. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Genji said, tenderly. 

The merchant paused, for a moment, half-way buried within Zenyatta. He caressed the shepherd’s face. “I wanted to marry you, you know. Ever since we were young.”

Zenyatta was dazed, mind working hard to just process what Genji was saying. The pressing concern of the sheep seemed distant- Lazy was taking care of it- and all that remained was the feverish need and Genji’s lithe, warm body wrapped around his. 

“You would take me?” The shepherd asked, bewildered. “But I’m—”

“Deserving of a better life,” Genji said, carefully pushing his way back in. The merchant’s eyes fluttered, and Zenyatta sighed, blissfully. “You ought to be on my arm instead of in a field of muddy sheep. I know it, and you know it, Zenyatta. So what do you say?” 

He moaned when Genji pulled on his member, careful and considerate,  _ blissful.  _ His calloused thumb worked miracles on the shepherd’s glans, making him arch and whine, desperately, for breath.

“Fine way of— ohhh… asking…” Zenyatta chuckled, breathlessly. He raised his arms to embrace Genji, who buried his face in the shepherd’s shoulder. “Unhh… but who will tend to the sheep?”

“They’ll tend to themselves, love,” Genji said. “They’ll prefer it, even.” There was another gentle back-and-forth push, and Zenyatta turned his head on the pillow, moaning. Genji rained a shower of appreciative kisses on his bare neck. 

Zenyatta’s haze told him it was a good idea. That he would love to see the world. That the sheep  _ could  _ be left to fend for themselves, and besides, they had Lazy. 

The dog was there, steadfast, in the corner. Watching. Its coat was a light ginger, but stained with blood that darkened it to an ugly burgundy color, matted and crawling with fornicating insects. There was a gash that ran through its fur, dripping blood with the furious intensity of the deluge of rain outside. 

Another heavenly thrust brought a whine to Zenyatta’s throat, and the dog was forgotten— until he remembered the rain, remembered his robes was dry, and it came back to him again.

Genji roared, but he was not thrown away from Zenyatta this time. He dug his claws into the black, glassy floor and continued pummeling into Zenyatta, panting heavily. The  _ slap slap slap  _ of skin on skin and gentle squelch—

—  _ Genji’s footsteps on a muddy path into the field, squelching, ruining his nice boots that likely cost more than Zenyatta’s entire hut— _

_ — the sound of bodies colliding, unknown fluids being swapped and exchanged at high velocity, the squelchy pummeling of quaking, unwanting flesh— _

_ “You should have stayed there,”  _ Genji’s hand locked around Zenyatta’s throat and tightened, and the monk made the awfullest spluttering  _ glrk  _ sound.  _ “Go back into the dream. You’ll like it better.”  _

Lazy was still watching, from far away. Zenyatta couldn’t see him in the gloom, but the monk knew he was there, somewhere just out of sight. 

Zenyatta cried out as he was flipped onto his stomach. There was a momentary reprieve, where he shuddered and shook, and the arrow-shaped head of the demon’s member pressed against his hole. There was minimal resistance now, walls parting for the demon as easily as a silk curtain. The heat, the girth, was familiar— not  _ welcome,  _ but familiar, all the same. 

_ “You were made for this. Perfectly shaped to take my cock.”  _ Clawed fingers manhandled Zenyatta from on his hands and knees to resting with his back against Genji’s chest, sitting in his lap, and the demon bounced into him with rabbit-thrusts. 

Zenyatta’s spine felt like gelatin. He could hardly feel his lower body anymore. Everything was fluid, messy, painful and pleasurable— the demon’s hands flew over Zenyatta’s cock, pressing and pulling and rubbing in all the right ways, and Genji’s girth rammed through the monk like he was trying to pummel in a place for himself. 

There was nothing to do but cry out for no one and fruitlessly squirm against Genji’s pounding. He wished, fleetingly, for the dream. 

“I’m close,” Genji kissed Zenyatta sweetly, the touch of his lips lingering for a moment. The merchant had sped his thrusts, beginning to gasp and pant.

“Ah—  _ hnh—  _ I— I am, too—” Zenyatta whined. He could feel the impending orgasm coming upon him, and couldn’t steady his gasps for breath. He wanted to come together, with Genji, their cries of ecstasy mingling… 

Lazy was in bed with them. The dog was so close Zenyatta could feel the heat radiating off of it, but Genji didn’t seem to care, so neither did the shepherd.

And, suddenly, the merchant threw back his head and roared—

— the demon screeched—

— the shepherd cried out in bliss—

— the monk wailed as unwanted ecstasy tore through him. 

Zenyatta came, hard, and at the zenith of his pleasure, he thought briefly for a moment of the gods. Of Lazy. 

Then he sank down into oblivion. 

Zenyatta’s head lolled back, resting on the demon’s sweaty collarbone. The spines on Genji’s shoulder kept the monk from going too far. 

His insides were slick with something warm and sticky. Zenyatta didn’t want to think about it. He was so consumingly, numbingly tired… his cock was soft and spent, and he felt like raw dough that was stretched too thin.

Then he realized Genji had not become flaccid. 

The heat and girth sheathed inside the monk had not waned so much as a millimeter— and then he began moving again. 

“No!” Zenyatta cried, abruptly. Genji’s arms were tightly wrapped around his waist, and Zenyatta struggled against them. “No! No! Not again— stop! Genji!  _ Genji!”  _

_ “Did you think it would be over?”  _ Genji asked, with a crooked smile.  _ “After just the once? How can you break something in if you don’t wear it down?”  _

“Please,” Zenyatta choked.  _ “Please,  _ no more—”

_ “Hush, monk. I suggest you settle in. This may be a while.”  _

He began thrusting again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one on Saturday. It’s been nice while it lasted.


	6. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fangs in the darkness.

Zenyatta began to sob, despite himself. His ribs trembled and his throat clogged and his lungs struggled to draw breath, and he wept, pitifully, miserably. 

The demon shifted into a dozen or more different positions; sprawling Zenyatta’s legs, clasping the two of them face-to-face, pounding with such  _ force  _ and  _ disregard  _ it was all Zenyatta could do to just  _ weep.  _

Genji took hold of Zenyatta’s hand and forced him to pleasure himself; the demon bit constellations of wounds into Zenyatta’s taut skin. He licked at Zenyatta’s throat, pulled cruelly at his nipples, and bent him into whatever painful shape he liked. Most of it was not about pleasure. It was about domination. Mastery. It was because he  _ could,  _ not because he wanted to.

Zenyatta cried, and Genji berated him for being weak, goaded him to cry more, and laid his hands on the monk to try to physically force him to stop. Nothing worked. There was nothing left for the demon  _ to  _ do. So he stopped trying. He ignored the hitching breaths and tears, and continued pounding into Zenyatta like it was his birthright. 

After a few moments, a happy, lion-maned dog with a ginger coat and sandy underbelly stepped out from the shadows.

Lazy’s fur gleamed, even in the darkness. Its moist, black eyes shone. It carried itself with a dignity and poise rarely seen in humans, much less dogs.

Lazy leapt through the air, landing squarely on top of Genji, and its fangs flashed in the darkness. There was a strangled, unearthly scream, the sound of flesh banging on flesh, and a wet ripping amidst snarls. The two rolled, tangled in a ball of violence, and twisted out of sight. 

Zenyatta’s arms were suddenly free. He sat up.

The monk hunched tightly, drawing his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around himself. Lazy padded out from the shadows, its muzzle coated with blood. The dog considerately licked at its snout, and stood before Zenyatta.

The monk had half-way reached out to shakily pet the dog, before it spoke. 

“The demon is gone. For the moment.” It  _ spoke,  _ calm and elegant, with a voice Zenyatta knew. 

_ “Mondatta?”  _

“Yes, Zenyatta. There’s— much I have to say. More than I ever could possibly…” 

“You were Lazy this whole time?” Zenyatta’s lips parted in surprise. 

The dog looked down at itself, lifting a paw. “Is that who I am at the moment? In any case, the answer is no. I’m just borrowing this shape. I felt a disturbance in my dreams tonight, and I thought it may be the monastery; I reached out to take hold of the mind of one of the animals, and this was the closest one to you.”

Zenyatta’s lip trembled. “Mondatta, that demon—”

“His name is Genji. I know him.” The dog said, gravely.

“He wants you. He  _ wanted  _ you. He’s been—” Zenyatta’s throat tightened, choking his words. 

“I know. I saw. You’re safe for the moment, Zenyatta, and I’ll likely be back come morning. You won’t need to worry about him.” 

“What? You  _ will?  _ Why so soon?” Hope stirred in the young monk’s heart.

“Our sister monastery is no more. There’s nothing left to rebuild.” Lazy lowered its muzzle, briefly, in mourning. 

Something icy gripped Zenyatta’s chest. If something had killed their brothers, on a scale like that… it could just as easily happen in their own monastery. 

A terrified thought seized Zenyatta: it could have been a demon like Genji responsible. It could have  _ been  _ Genji. This whole time he had had been  _ playing  _ with Zenyatta, and the monk had no doubt in his mind that if Genji actually wanted Zenyatta killed, he could have done it, easily. 

“I have to go, Zenyatta.” Lazy reached forward, pressing its cold wet nose into Zenyatta’s knee. It left a smudge of blood. “I’ll see you soon, and I guarantee, this— nothing even remotely like this— will happen  _ ever  _ again. I am so,  _ so  _ sorry.” 

Then Lazy was gone.

Beside Zenyatta’s sleeping body, Lazy’s muzzy eyes peeped open. The dog had the momentary feeling as though something wrong, or different, had happened… though what, exactly, there was not enough intelligence in the dog’s mind to speculate. 

It closed its eyes, mentally shrugging its shoulders, and dreamt of chasing sheep. 

/ / /

Zenyatta awoke to sunshine on his face. 

Everything- all of it, the sauna, his time here, the dream- seemed like a distant nightmare. As though it were unreal, something that couldn’t have really happened; but the imprint it left behind was real enough.

He crawled out from under the blankets, and Lazy followed suit, watching him with big, soulful eyes. Zenyatta gave the dog a scratch behind its ears, and gathered up his things. 

The monk paused, considering, with a blanket over his shoulder. 

“Mondatta?” He asked the dog, in a husky, slightly embarrassed tone. 

Lazy gave no indication of hearing, happily staring off into the distance. Zenyatta wasn’t sure what to think of the dog anymore. He had been so convinced that there was a guardian spirit inside it— there had been so much  _ evidence—  _

But it looked like the dog was just that. A dog. 

Zenyatta hiked up the mountain, Lazy at his hip, and sat by the monastery gates.  _ Gates,  _ though, wasn’t entirely the right word. Perhaps  _ wooden archway.  _ Gates implied there was something to bar the way, and there wasn’t. It was a free, easy entry.

… Perhaps they should  _ have  _ gates. Have walls.

Or, maybe, that was his trauma trying to override his faith. Maybe that was what Genji wanted him to think.

He waited, while the sun carried itself higher and higher into the sky. And, just after the sun rose over the peak of the mountain range, he saw them. Eleven shapes in the distance, wearily hiking up the hill. 

His fellows were back. His  _ friends  _ were back. His heart burst with such joy that he could barely contain himself.

“Don’t think you’ve won.” 

It was Genji’s voice. Sour and angry. He stood in the shade of an ancient, knotted tree with a trunk twice as thick as his torso. He leaned against it, faux-casual. 

Zenyatta noticed the demon’s scars, even in shadow. They were new. Fresh. It looked as though someone had tried to tear out his throat. 

Lazy’s tail began to wag.

The demon looked tired. Drained. Zenyatta had to curb a torrent of satisfaction and sadism when he noticed; Genji was not a threat right now. So the monk would not lay a hand on him. It was as simple as that. 

“Mondatta will give you over to me.” Genji said. “You’ll be the only thing I’ll accept for his debt.” 

“What you did to me is torture,” Zenyatta told him, taking a tight hold of his voice to keep it from trembling with emotion. “I’d sooner take my own life than belong to you.”

“Heh. Yours… but not mine.” Genji turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You have the opportunity right now. I hurt you, Zenyatta. I abused you. I pinned you down and had my way with you. More than once. So why don’t you throw a stone with the intent to  _ kill,  _ little monk?” 

“Because Mondatta is coming.”

Genji hissed, and steam poured from his lips. “Yes, he is. And once he gives me to you, we’ll go to Wa- we’ll go  _ home-  _ and you’ll be mine.” 

“We’ll see,” Zenyatta said, simply. He laid his hand on Lazy’s head, grasping a fistful of fur. Some tiny little part of him believed Genji,  _ believed  _ that he was going to become a sex slave far in the east, only to be free once he opened his veins—

A bigger part of him knew Mondatta better than that. But one often took more notice of a discordant whisper rather than a throng of uniform voices.

The eleven monks came to the archway. They all looked tired, understandably so, but none of Zenyatta’s brothers seemed surprised to see Genji standing beneath the boughs.

Mondatta stepped forth, hands carefully clasped in front of him. Genji mirrored his movements, though his arms were crossed over his chest.

“You owe me, Mondatta. It’s been forty years of debt on your back, and I would like a repayment.” Genji unfolded his arms, laying them at his sides. 

“What do you want in exchange?”

Zenyatta waited.

“The monk. Zenyatta.” 

Zenyatta wanted to close his eyes, but his lids wouldn’t shut. He waited for Mondatta to speak. 

But Mondatta did not speak. He stared, as Zenyatta stared, as the other monks stared. Genji’s voice pitched, defensively. 

“I want him. He is my payment.” 

“You can’t have him,” Mondatta said, simply. 

Genji’s lip curled. “You—”

“— must settle a debt. I asked you for blood— oni blood. And you spilled it. Spilled it beyond what I’d ever imagined.”

“I slayed countless kinsmen,” Genji puffed. “They are worth more than the life of an empty-headed monk with no prospects. This is a fair trade.” 

He bragged, at first, but as his words dragged on, they tinged with caution, uncertainty. Genji sensed, as Zenyatta sensed, the change in the air. The monks all lifted their arms together. 

“You can’t back  _ out of our deal, Mondatta!”  _ Genji morphed from his human form to the spiny, jet-colored beast.  _ “You owe me!” _

“Blood for blood,” Mondatta said, raising his hands in the air. The sky crackled with electricity, and dark clouds began to swirl, congregating in the heavens above their heads. 

_ “Blood!? Whose?! The only blood that spilled was the ones you asked for!”  _ Genji shrieked. Crimson eyes looked up into the sky in alarm. Men, he could fight. Beasts, he could fight. Magic, he could fight.

A storm… not so much. 

“Monk blood,” Mondatta said, simply. 

Genji’s eyes widened, and shot from the tempest to Zenyatta. 

_ “He was bait,”  _ Genji roared, accusatory.  _ “He was bait, all along. You placed a pretty face in front of me, lured me into screwing him just so you had the moral justification to get rid of me!  _ **_Well, I don’t think so!”_ **

He lunged at Mondatta. 

A bolt of lightning came down from the sky, shockingly bright and blue, searing Zenyatta’s eyes and flashing with such heat and intensity Zenyatta thought he would burn to a tiny crisp.

A purple-green streak seared Zenyatta’s vision as an afterimage, but he could still see a pile of coarse black dust where Genji had once stood scatter in the wind. 

Zenyatta blinked, rubbing his eyes, and looked up at Mondatta, who was brushing ash out of his robes.

“Is he gone?” Zenyatta asked, hardly daring to believe it. “Just like that?”

“No,” Mondatta said. “But he won’t be back. He knows better.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions or comments, please feel free to ask/leave them. A writer’s currency is attention.

**Author's Note:**

> After the disappointment expressed by commenters about The Man in the Woods, I decided to take a different approach to writing stories like these.
> 
> The fic is finished already. Nothing, except my untimely death, will stop me from posting all six of the completed chapters on time. There are no reluctant “I’m not finishing this” posts. It’s done.
> 
> Updates on Tuesdays and Saturdays every week until I run out of chapters.


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